


Sun on Steel

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4123267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, you know, when you write a <a href="http://madmaxkink.dreamwidth.org/450.html?thread=500162#cmt500162"> kink meme fill </a>, it helps to actually pay attention to it.  The first draft of this somehow ignored the 'Morsov is a cocky little bastard' part of it so I had to rewrite it with 75% more alpha male dickmeasuring nonsense, and 50% less ridiculous flirting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun on Steel

“The War Rig.” Morsov tilted his head back, hands on hips, stepping into the shade cast by the metal behemoth. “The real, actual War Rig.”  

He could feel his heart against his ribs, thrilling with something he didn’t have a name for, but it was good. The War Rig, and he’d be riding on it.

“Yeah. Real, actual War Rig,” said the Ace, bumping past him. “And real, actual work to be done ‘fore th’Imperator gets here.”  

“The Imperator,” Morsov said, trailing Ace. “Furiosa.”  Her name on his tongue tasted like chrome.  The Immortan’s most trusted Imperator, and he was assigned to crew her.  His memory still bubbled with how envious his friends had been at the assignments last night. It was a promotion--a big one--and he was going to make the best impression on Furiosa that he could.  He’d be the best lancer she had, or die trying.

“What’s she like?” He almost bumped into the Ace as he dropped to one knee, tightening the connector between the rig and its tanker.  

Ace grunted. “Little sluggish in acceleration, but corners tight enough.”  

Morsov blinked. “I...meant Furiosa. You know.” And then hope pushed through him. “Wonder if she’ll let me touch her hand!”

Ace straightened, stepping closer, almost chest to chest. “Know what I know, pup? I know you don’t get to call her anything but ‘the Imperator’. And if you even think about touchin’ her...?”  

Morsov backed down, hands raised, under the weight of that voice, crushing his hope like a can. “Yeah. I didn’t mean anything by it, just…”  
“Just, you do what she says, double quick,” Ace said. “Got it?”

“Yeah,” Morsov said, uncertainly, some of the shine of the day tarnishing. “I got it.”

***

Furiosa climbed up into the rig’s cab, hooking the door to close it behind her. She’d barely settled in when Ace was hanging in the window. “How are the replacements looking?”

“Look all right,” Ace said. “‘Course, you never know till you see ‘em in action yourself.”

“We may get a chance to.  Buzzards have been active lately.”

“Yeah,” Ace said, squinting into the sun as she started the rig’s engines. “It’s that season for ‘em.” The rains were late this year, and it was eating at everyone’s nerves, but the Buzzards most of all. “Heard they tried a hit on Gas Town last week.”

“Tried,” Furiosa said.  

“Pretty much,” Ace chuckled. Gas Town boys didn’t put up with much. “Hey, new kid’s got a thing for you, looks like.”

“A thing.”  Furiosa looked over at him, one corner of her mouth quirking up.

“Yeah,” Ace said. “That thing, too.”  

“You’re too much, Ace,” she said, pushing playfully at his chest with her metal arm.  “Got a run to make.”

“Never know how much till you try, boss,” he said, and she would swear he winked, before hooking his goggles down over his eyes, and levering up the side of the rig. “All right, War Boys, in positions!”  

***

This. This was what Morsov had come out here to do. This was what had fired his blood, this was what he lived for: the chance to win glory.  And he would snatch at it with both hands.  He pounded along the top of the tanker, then planted his feet, throwing his shoulder back before whipping it forward, launching the lance at the squat, spiky car of the Buzzard’s strafing vehicle.  It landed true, right between the metal spines, through the back window, and Morsov couldn’t resist the whoop of victory, throwing his voice against the bleached white sky.

He was unstoppable: he could feel it, like fresh blood, like a kind of intoxicating, almost giddy feeling, like his heart was soaring against the top of his ribcage.  He felt strong and powerful and eager, and everything seemed to move in slow motion, as if letting him record each bright, vivid detail, etch it into his memory.  

Morsov ran forward, leaping onto the roof of the lookout on the front of the Rig’s trailer, seizing another lance, and paused to find the next target. The best target.  The one that would feel like Valhalla opening to welcome him.  The wind screamed in his ears, and he could feel it slicing against his skin, stripping away heat, and he felt like he was on the top of the world, on the roof, hurtling toward glory.

A Buzzard vehicle swept in, trying to cut off the War Rig, its spiny sides skreeling against the fender.  That one, Morsov thought. He could take that out and she--the Imperator--would have to see it. And she’d see and know what a great warrior he was. And even her Ace would have to admit it.  They’d all witness and know.  

He leapt down, onto the roof of the War Rig’s cab itself, and she was just under his feet and that thought was like an electric current running up his spine. And he was flinging himself forward, the lance clamped in both hands, and his feet had just left metal and he was flying, in command of steel and air and his own bones and blood, but then the War Rig turned, cornering hard, and the engine intakes slammed into his leg.    
The lance tumbled from his grip, and he landed hard on the cab of the rig, no longer in command of anything, struggling to suck air into his lungs.  

A loud report, and Ace was crouching on the cab above him, the barrel of a shotgun blazing white-orange once, twice, and then the Buzzard vehicle veered off, its engine block punctured, seething steam and fire.  

Morsov was still gasping on the hood when the War Rig slowed, rolling over to feel the growing bruise on his ribs.  Which still hurt less than the wreck of his intentions.

And then his ankle was grabbed, from the side of the Rig, and Morsov was jerked off, bodily, barely managing to get his palms to break his fall from landing face down on the sand, by the sand-gritted tire.  

But he wasn’t a mewling War Pup. Morsov shoved up, twisting around to bring his other heel up to kick at Ace, who had grabbed him. It connected with a solid crack, staggering the other man, but Morsov had just gotten to his feet when Ace launched at him, a low tackle to the midsection, right on Morsov’s banged ribs, and the breath whooshed from him in a curse, grabbing at Ace’s head, trying to get a grip on...something.  

Ace had enough brawler in his past: that didn’t work. He twisted his head out from under Morsov’s grip, and drove him back, a forearm against Morsov’s throat, until the War Boy felt his shoulders slam against the sun-hot metal of the rig.  

And then he felt the cool line of a blade against his throat--Ace laying the blade against it with his right hand, and by the fury in his eyes, he would have no hesitation in using it.  

“You can kill yourself all you want,” Ace said, his voice jarringly quiet, conversational, considering the lean of his weight against the younger man. “But you don’t get to take th’Imperator with you.”  

“I wasn--” His words were choked by a harder lean against his throat.

“Buzzard vehicles have deadman switches for when the driver dies. You kill him, it blows.  It blows that close to the lead engine…?”

Morsov...hadn’t thought of that. He’d only thought that she would see him, witness his heroism.  “Then we all go to Valhalla!” he said, but he felt the bluster under the words.

“They don’t let you in for stupidity,” Ace hissed and Morsov felt his lip curl at the insult.

“You’re just afraid, old man,” he said, getting his hands against the other’s ribs to shove backward, his gloves slipping on Ace’s sweaty skin. “You’re a weak old coward.”

“You keep telling yourself that, pup,” Ace retorted, and he pressed the steel of his blade a little harder against Morsov’s windpipe. “Just remember, the weak old man’s the one with rank around here.”

“Enough!” Furiosa’s hands, one flesh, one steel, tore them apart.  “You, pup. Get up on watch.”

“But he--”  The word ‘pup’, from her lips, stung like acid.

“NOW.”  

He cast one dark look, darker than the smear around his eyes, at Ace, before shouldering past him, on his way up.

***

“You’re not a coward.”

Ace slammed his knife back in its sheath with more force than it needed. “I know that, boss. Just puttin’ him in his place.”

“His place is with a knife to his throat?”

Ace shrugged. “Some of ‘em don’t listen to anything else.”

“And he’s one of them.”

“I know the type, Imperator.” He sighed. “Not afraid of dyin’, since, you know,” He gave an eloquent shrug that shifted the tumors fanning over his throat. “Just rather finish a mission first. But him, he just wants to die, and don’t care who else he takes out with him.”

“I noticed that, yeah,” Furiosa said, wiping a hand down her thigh. “Look. You look after the other boys. Check the vehicles. See how much damage the damn Buzzards did.” She squinted up at the suncut silhouette of the Rig. “And I’ll handle the pup.”

***

Morsov was pacing the top of the tanker when Furiosa climbed up, muttering something it was probably better she couldn’t hear, fists balling and unballing.  Yeah, she thought, she knew the type, too. Ace had been one; in his day.

She waited till he was headed the other way, before climbing up, positioning herself to block his path as he turned.  

He almost stumbled into her, lost in his anger.  “Furi--Imperator!”  

“Seems like you’ve got a problem with my Ace,” she said, coolly.  

“He’s got a problem with me,” Morsov retorted, sullenly.

“Yeah?” Furiosa made a show of looking him up and down. “I can see why.”

That left him speechless, confused.  It was, she decided, a good look on him.  

“And now, you see, you both have problems. And I have a problem,” she said, stepping closer, close enough that her thighs brushed his, “with that.”

You didn’t win battles by not pressing advantages.  And Furiosa didn’t lose battles. She did an inside ankle trip, steel hand guiding his shoulder so he fell flat down and back, between the rails on top of the tanker, dropping down on top of him as heavily as she could, feeling his hipbones jutting against the backs of her thighs.  She leaned forward, pinning his shoulder to the ground, while her hand, her real hand, slipped down his body, over his ribs. “I don’t like having problems,” she whispered, forcing his eyes to meet hers, and feeling arousal shudder through his body.  

He started nodding, changed his mind, shook his head, and then gave up trying to make any sense.  She leaned closer, enough that he could feel the leather against his chest and belly, her mouth grazing just over his, tempting a kiss and then sliding off, tracing a line along his jaw till she found his ear.  “You were good out there, earlier,” she whispered, barely shaping the words against his ear, as her hand slid lower, finding a gap between the waistband and his skin, and he shivered as he felt her fingers feather out along his lower belly. His hips pushed up, weakly, wanting more touch, more of that sultry whisper in his ear, more of...whatever the hell was happening. He’d had fantasies--who didn’t?--but it hadn’t been quite like this.

He was kind of starting to think that his imagination was mediocre. Because this...was much better. Especially when her hand found his cock, giving it a long squeezing pull.  “Am good,” he wheezed, still afraid to move, to fuck this up.

“Could be better,” she said, softening the words with a little flicking lick to his earlobe, before sitting back, her thighs a V framing his crotch. He felt the warm metal of her other hand trail down his body, flirting over the scars as though reading them, the touch large and blunt and different but still...really fucking hot. And then her hands met on his trousers, and she spent a moment rolling her thumbs over the bulge under the fabric, before meeting his gaze, her hands moving to unbuckle the trousers’ opening.  “If I had Ace’s knife, I’d just cut these off,” she said, conversationally, just to put the thought of cold steel against his warm, vulnerable body, back in his mind.  He swallowed, hard, letting his hands drop to his sides, gripping the metal rail as she opened his pants, and he felt her gaze, and air, and the hot afternoon, as his cock popped free.  

“Stay there,” she said, rocking off him, standing up to strip off her boots, and then, catching his gaze with hers, bending down to strip off her pants.  

And, yeah, her body was better than anything he could imagine: taut muscle and sleek skin, the curves and lines of a sportscar.  Like...a goddess, he thought, like an engine brought to life, powerful and beautiful and sexy.  

“Eyes up,” she said, and he snapped his attention back to her face. She gave a lopsided grin, moving forward to land on all fours, hovering over him. “So you _can_ follow orders.”

He nodded, his breath coming shallow and fast, breathing in the smell of her. Female, different in a way he couldn’t describe, and he wanted to touch it, desperately, wanted to feel the skin of her bared ribs, the swell of her hips, the sleek lines of her thighs.  His hands barely lifted off the rails before she moved, catching his wrists and pinning them by his head with her left hand. “No touching,” she said.

He growled, but didn’t fight, because her other hand was on his cock again, and he felt the bare skin of her inner thighs against his hips.  Morsov strained his hips upward, aching for contact.

“Want something?”

He nodded, twisting his wrists under hers.

“Going to behave?” Her hand pressed his cock against her, and he could feel that heat between her legs, a slickness that almost tingled over his skin.  He nodded again, trying to look down over his body, to see.

“Good answer,” she grinned, and rolled her hips forward, and then he was inside her, feeling that heat covering his cock, melting down over him as her hips sank down, taking him in.  He’d be an idiot to want to mess this up.  Because he knew, already, that if he dared cross her, even now, she’d have no qualm about getting up, and leaving him here, stiff-cocked and burning with lust and embarrassment.

She moved over him, sliding her hips forward and back, on a sort of arc, shifting where he was inside her, and it was...yeah it was way better than his hand, then just up and down, this was pressure and angle and slippery wetness and it was Furiosa, the Imperator herself, doing this to him, and the War Rig was hot and hard against him, filling his nostrils with the scent of baked metal and that rosy salty musk that must be female and sex.  He groaned as she moved on him, and the smell and the heat and the sunlight flaring down over him and the indescribable feeling of her moving over him, him inside her--it all ran together inside him, spinning around him like something faster than blood, something trying to rise through his skin. It felt like a kind of edged bliss, like standing on the top of the War Rig, powerful and wracking and he felt his entire body seem to tighten, like his bones were rising upward, arching into the slow, building rhythm she’d set against him, and his mouth parted, trying to make some word, or some sound, but instead just managing a formless sound--

\--and then she stopped.  

Stopped, posted high above him, so that just the head of him was inside her, and he could see the pyramid of sunlight between her thighs, the cab of the forenest between them, rusty grey in the afternoon heat. He dropped his head back, frustrated, confused, trying to writhe his way up into her again, feeling the heat of that blissful edge cooling.  

“Ace isn’t a coward,” she said, boring into him with her pale eyes.  

Morsov groaned, spitting out half a curse.  

“He’s not,” she repeated, lifting up off him just a little bit more, in a threat.

“He’s not!” Morsov said, and his voice was a whimper.  

She slipped back lower, a little bit. “You’ll follow all his orders.  With respect.”  

“Yeah! Yes. I will. I will. I swear.”  He twisted his hips, almost hissing with need. “Please.”  

He heard a throaty sound from her throat, and then felt her mouth on his, in a real kiss, her lips softer than anything, and her hips sank home against his and it felt like leads of batteries connecting, or an engine roaring to life inside him and all he could feel was their bodies sliding against each other, sweat and the slick wetness from her spreading over his cock and the seams of his thighs, and she was like the queen of the sun, shining down on him and then his world exploded into light, into a sound of pure ecstasy, his hands twisting under the metal fingers pinning them and he felt like he was cut open, spilling himself into her. His whole body shuddered, bliss-slick against the top of the tanker, and she stayed for just a moment longer, till the last throb echoed through his body, and she kissed him again, something sweet and sharp, ending with a nip of his lower lip, that almost echoed the twinge of her lifting her body off him, that last little pressure before his cock fell from her, limp and glossy wet and somnolent. And she stood up, dressing quickly, while Morsov barely had the energy to move, just wanting to lie there, savoring the sun’s warmth and light and the way everything felt loose and smooth and this was even better than Valhalla, he thought, vaguely, and he said, “Imperator,” just to feel the word in his mouth, letting it roll, slow and lazy from his tongue.  “Imperator.” It made him feel buzzy and warm inside.  

She dropped down beside him, sitting across the rail to pull on her boots. “As long as you behave,” she said. “You can call me Furiosa.”  And then she pushed off the top of the tanker, leaving him alone, and murmuring her name in the stillness of the afternoon.  

***

It was after dark when Ace caught up with her, as they were firing up the vehicles to make the last leg into Bartertown, falling into step beside her as she checked the last of the escort vehicles, before turning to her own. “Think you wore him out with your little ‘talk’,” he said. 

Furiosa shrugged. “It happens.  Besides, you said he didn’t listen to you. Can’t have that.”

“Guessin’ not, boss.”

“Reminds me a lot of you, actually,” she said, hooking her left hand up to haul her into the Rig’s cab.  

“Yeah? One big difference is I ain’t wore out yet.” He stood up on the runner, closing the door after her.

“Well, Ace.” She hit the ignition, and the Rig rumbled to life, and she looked over at him for the first time, a smile playing on her lips. “Night’s still young, isn’t it?”


End file.
